Not Anymore
by northofthepark
Summary: A short ficlet, total fluff, set in series three. Written around that time, AND my first published fic! (kindness & reviews appreciated!)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: set in series 3, around the time of the cancer scare

The way the sunlight filters through the window and touches her hair makes him pause.

She is sitting at the servant's table, likely believing she is alone, savoring a blessed moment of peace before the day begins. But he is there, and because he is, and because they are both still, as they so rarely are in the harsh light of day, he can see the shadows that have pooled beneath her eyes, and he wonders when she last slept soundly.

He frowns.

He notices her worrying her lower lip with extra vigor, knotting and unknotting her fingers on her lap. He thinks that if he walked in now, if he called her name and her eyes met his, he'd see that hers were filled with tears.

He bites the inside of his own cheek in hurt and dismay. He wishes she would speak to him, though he knows exactly why she won't. He is painfully aware of the image he projects. He understands acutely that his behavior reads as cold, hard, and closed-minded.

Even to her.

Even to her, he thinks, because she knows the reasons for his cool exterior. She knows his insecurities, knows he hides them with decorum, knows he puts his self-worth in his position. He knows she knows. But he also knows that she knows that he won't change, not even for her. Or at least, that must be how it appears. How many times had they toed that particular line? He thinks by now it must be threadbare.

He bites his cheek harder as her shoulders begin to shake. It's plain to see that she is scared, but he has rebuffed her emotions so many times before, how can he go to her now? How could he envelop her in his arms and whisper soothing words, when in the past he's always met her attempts at friendship with such resistance?

He looks at her, trembling there, so different from the woman he sees every day, and he realizes what a terribly selfish fool he's been. How selectively he's loved her. For there is no other word for what he feels for this fiery, clever, quick-witted, stubborn woman. And she loves him too, he thinks. How deeply, he isn't sure.

What he does know is that he has not been fair to her; he has not been good; he does not deserve her. He has taken all she has offered, and only given what he felt like. He has withheld his support, his emotions, his friendship from her all in the name of reputation, in the name of seemliness. Hadn't he always come to her in moments of doubt, hesitation, sadness, and even fear? And hadn't she always been there? Ready and willing to give, to help, to heal in whatever way she could?

He swallows thickly as he stands there, immobile, watching her suffer alone.

He could not say 'to hell' with propriety, and he knows she'd never ask him to—neither of them are as modern as all that—but maybe the rules can be bent, just a little, for a friend in need.

He regards her for a few more moments in silence, and feels his heart thud against his ribs. His time is running short. The others will be up soon.

With a quick breath to steady himself, Mr. Carson steps out from the shadows and into the early morning light.

Mrs. Hughes startles, but remains where she is. She holds his eyes, makes no attempt to hide her tears. There is a tense moment, filled with questions and answers unspoken, and then he goes to her. He takes her in his arms, and lets her cry against his chest while he makes gentle patterns with his hand across her back.

When they part, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. He hopes in that soft flex of muscles he conveys how things have changed. She will not have to suffer alone.

Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all so much for your kind support and encouragement on the last chapter. You've given me the confidence to post part two, the same scene from Mrs. Hughes' POV, bringing to an end my first ever published fic. I can't tell you how much your positive reviews mean to me. Thank you again from the bottom of my heart!

Of course she knows he's lurking in the shadows. He's not exactly a small fellow, nor is he very sneaky. She just can't bring herself to care.

There's been a worrying amount of that attitude in her life lately. Frankly, she just can't see the point. She can't see the point in all of these rules, in all of the denial and the restraint. Guidelines she can handle. Propriety is a must. But all of this needless hurt? This masking of human feeling? In the midst of this terrible darkness, this anxious chaos her life has become, she thinks it can't be borne.

If it had been any other moment, any other time than when she finds herself sullen and grey in the soft yellow fingers of the early morning, she would have been strong. She does not want him to see her tears. She does not want him to think her weak, or stupid, or even delicate. And yet she can't seem to stop the quaking motions of her chest, her shoulders. She is brewing and breaking, like a storm, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.

Vaguely, she thinks it serves them both right. Her to finally break, and him to witness it, to be discomforted by her vulnerability. It serves them right for putting up so many walls, for buying in so completely to the cold, impersonal ways of servitude, for maintaining that ridiculous arms-length distance from their humanity. She is not an automaton. Nor is he. _And_ , she thinks, _it would do us both well to remember it_.

She's not all out sobbing. Her tears are hot and slow, coating her cheeks, leaving them red and blotchy. She worries her lower lip, a bad habit she's had since girlhood and never given up. One of the only things about herself she's kept, not tried to train out of herself. It is no surprise, she supposes, no surprise at all that the bad habit that even her mother had tried to coax her out of would be something she never surrendered.

He's still standing there, she knows, but he hasn't moved. He hasn't come to comfort her, hasn't said a word.

And it bothers her.

She wraps her arms around herself and the tears come more freely. She hates that she feels this way. Hates that she longs for some sort of reaction from him. Something other than scorn and coldness. She knows she winds him up, does it intentionally more often than not, but lately it has seemed to her as if he sought her out with the express purpose of berating her, punishing her for something or another. She wonders if, for all this time, she has overestimated his regard for her. She had always supposed them friends, at the very least.

Now, however, she isn't sure. All she knows is that she wants more. Her terror, her grief has made her greedy, and she no longer wants to settle for hidden fondness and cracked friendship. She's tired of picking up the slack. She wants him to move.

And so, when he strides out of his shelter in the shadows and meets her eyes, she refuses to look away. Refuses to shrink or cower, or even hide her streaming tears. She doesn't want to take her eyes off of him. Not this time. She tries to ask him, tell him, reassure him, with her gaze.

 _Just something._  
 _Something._  
 _Give me something._

This desire, this fervent hope does not prevent her moment of shock when he does, in fact, come to her, but she wastes no time. She rises to meet his comfort, takes it greedily, drinks it in, hadn't realized how parched she was.

She sobs now. Sobs into his chest, dampens the front of his jacket, disturbs the pristine crispness of his white shirt, his black tie with her clutching hands. She finds purchase there, huddled against him. The feeling of peace that washes over her is sudden and its effects immediate.

It is enough.

She lingers as long as possible as they begin to part. Everything, every moment seems somehow more focused, clear. She swears she can feel each thread of his suit, his shirt as she drags her fingers over them. Away from him.

Just there, in the pit of her stomach she feels a flutter, feels embarrassment and a little bit of something else, something she thinks is akin to anticipation and makes her heart skip uncomfortably. She struggles to maintain their connection, even as her senses slowly return, as her hysteric mind ceases to hum quite so loudly. Her hand rests lightly on his wrist. She's dismayed to find herself trembling, but not surprised. She doesn't know what she's doing, what she's possibly thinking, resting her palm there like that, circling his wrist as best she can in a featherlight grip, but no matter how much she wants to, she can't seem to make herself pull away.

Not again.  
Not today.

She is scared, terribly nervous that this, this moment, whatever it was, held more weight for her than it had for him, anxious that his eyes will be blank, his expression impenetrable. Her cheeks start to burn as she imagines what a fragile fool he must think her. She begins to lift her hand, slow, soft, and she feels her stomach sink, is tempted to search for the sorry organ somewhere at her feet.

When his hand grasps hers on its retreat, giving her a gentle squeeze, her worries begin to fade. They do not disappear, but they are lessened, a momentary comfort, a newfound assurance.

A smile ghosts her lips, belying the relief that floods through her, the pooling of that tight anticipation that flusters her. She isn't entirely sure what it means, of course, how could she be? Their necessary code of communication is garbled and confusing—their dance of sideways glances, smirks, and rolling eyes— but she knows it well enough, knows _him_ well enough, to read at least a little between the lines.

 _I know. I care. You are not alone._  
 _Not anymore._


End file.
